From Men to Me: A Russian Heart and an American Dream

By Elena Vanek

Elena was looking for home—and love in all the wrong places. Dangled upside down out of the window of a ten-story building by two mafia thugs, Elena—a Russian woman from the Soviet Union—was at one of the lowest points in her life. Suspended mid-air, all she could think of was her son. She questions the choices she’d made in a life connected by a myriad of chaotic chapters and characters. From lead Russian actress, to partnering with one important man after the next, through the crumbling of the Soviet Union, and the hell of Perestroika...Elena was a survivor.

Still, she worried. Would she be able to make it without a man?

America and an American husband seemed to be the answer to her dissatisfaction. But was it? Russia still held the answers to what she’d been looking for. Russia was a mirror to her choices. She discovers that nothing had ever really been missing, and here begins her real journey back to wholeness, and a courageous life that spans two continents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elena Vanek
• Release date: Jul 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311869340

Elena Vanek

Elena Vanek is a consultant and coach who helps international women prepare for their new life in America after moving from overseas. She is an expert at bridging the gap between Russian women and American cultural differences. Elena directs the women to new opportunities through her coaching. She helps them find their inner strength, build community, and realize joy during the process of dealing with cultural change and the difficulty of divorce.Elena originally began her career in Theatre. She earned her degree from the Institute of Theatre, in Kazakstan and was immediately accepted into the prestigious Academic Theatre where she performed as a lead actress for many years. After a two-year stint as the Manager of Culture at the House of Scientists in Akadem-Town, Russia, she pursued a career in business. She opened her own clothing boutique, worked in international travel and hospitality, and years later, opened a yoga center for women in Sochi, Russia.Yoga has been a big part of Elena’s life and personal transformation since 2003. In 2010 she received her Yoga Teaching Certificate. She continues to teach private classes in San Diego, California.Elena’s passion is working with women—particularly from Russia, who are in the later stages of their life; the Crone Stage. Her desire is to help them transition into this special time of life as gracefully as possible. As part of her coaching, she utilizes focused transformational work to help the women reach their highest potential. Elena believes in the power of the Crone Women as natural healers and leaders who are here to help give their best to our planet.

Book preview

From Men to Me

Elena Vanek

Copyright 2014 by Elena Vanek

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Prologue

Leaving Michael

No Good Answer

The Good Wife

Red Torch Blues

The Disappearing Act

The Scientific House Affair

Obsessing Albert

A Real Mafia Boyfriend

Perestroika Fever

KGB Love

The Magic Outside of Russia

A Russian Bride

A Country in Chaos

Lost in America

Coming Home

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I dedicate this book to my mom, Irina. She gave me the opportunity to be a free spirit, and because of her, I became the strong, independent woman I am today. She may not be able to read my memoir because she doesn’t speak English, but she knows in her heart how I feel. I am eternally grateful to her for being my main source of inspiration and support during my life’s journey.

To my amazing son who gave me the best and most important role of my life–being his mother. To his bravery in choosing an artistic path as his career, his creativity, dedication to his music and his passion for life…I am truly in awe and so very proud of him.

To all the women in my life who are now my friends and especially those from my past who challenged me to learn and grow, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Finally, to Jennifer Myers who help me with this book.

PROLOGUE

It was hot. Sweat dripped down my forehead. Watery teardrops made tiny, one-by-one splashes as they hit the floor. I noticed a small puddle at the top of my mat but for some reason I felt comforted knowing it was my sweat, my puddle.

I didn’t feel in my body, and this disturbed me.

It always did.

I almost felt American, but I wasn’t. At age fifty-two, I couldn’t forget about my Russian heritage. It seeped into my bones, it teased me.

Did I care anymore?

I did.

The dim lights of the hot yoga studio in San Diego, CA where I went every other day, with the packed-in bodies and sweaty-body smell, all took me back to the damp, dirty, dark entranceway of my past and the five-bedroom I lived in, in Siberia, Russia. Always stay aware. No doorman, no security. Big-nosed, ugly Mafia-men in dark coats, hiding in corners, creeping into apartments…waiting for me.

Scary. Not safe.

It was just the opposite in downtown San Diego where I lived. I felt safe in California, with its clean sky, shiny buildings and sun-lit waters. One year ago I never dreamed I’d be back. My first move to America in 2002 had ended in such a bad way with the divorce from my American husband, that when I returned back to Russia in 2011 I almost felt home. I started over and began what turned into a thriving fitness center for women. However, Russia was still Russia. Cold. Brittle. Gray. Rough. Yet something felt different. It didn’t take me long though, to realize I had changed—not Russia. I’d lost my teeth, that Russian bite. I was open, mushy—warm in my center. Was I more in my womanhood—an American-goddess woman?

When the Mafia came to interfere with my business, because they always did, I knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t survive.

America had softened me, almost to my detriment.

I no longer fit Russia, and Russia no longer fit me.

Back in the yoga studio, when I stretched to reach my toes, I could almost smell my many failures. But they were all a part of who I was now.

A Russian-American woman.

The slim red-haired yoga instructor circled the room like a music conductor at rehearsal. When she passed my mat her fingers rapped a soft rhythm on my back, and I straightened my spine. I leaned over into my triangle pose—a favorite, and that’s when it happened. I felt out of my body. Like a part of me broke off and stayed standing. I watched myself stretch my left hand to the black Marley floor, and my right, high like an arrow. When I looked up, I saw pieces of my soul shattered on the yoga ceiling. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.

It was too late for tears.

I’d betrayed myself the first time when I was twenty-five, and I couldn’t take it back.

Then, I was a Russian actress girl.

But no more.

That girl was dead.

* * *

I knew I was in the yoga studio. I knew I was stretched in a yoga pose. My body was physically doing something, but my mind and spirit had floated far, far away. They had simply left my body. It was as if a portal had opened, torpedoing my spirit like a rocket straight into my past. I knew twenty-seven years ago my soul had left my body and never returned.

But why?

Two years ago the questions had begun to enter my mind like puffy clouds of hope, How can I find myself. How can I connect myself back together again? Although beautiful, the questions disturbed me.

I couldn’t stop the questions from coming, and I didn’t know the answer, until I was in the yoga studio, in an extended triangle pose.

I knew where my soul would travel: Back to my twenty-five-year-old-actress-Elena who worked at Academe Theatre.

* * *

It was 1985.

I was an actress of the well-known Academe Dramatic Theater, in Kazakhstan. Alma-Ata was the largest city in Kazakhstan and the Republic’s capital. In 1993 the government re-christened Alma-Ata, Almaty and removed it as the capital.

For me though, it was Alma-Ata, where spring brought ripe apples, winters nipped fingers, and the government controlled everything—which was normal. Born 1961 in Kazakhstan, Alma-Ata was all I knew. My familiar.

I was twenty-five and honored.

I’d worked hard studying in a theatre college. So hard I was asked at the early age of twenty-two to join the Academe Theatre, which was unheard of. I felt special. I also knew I wasn’t the best actress because I was still young. But, I’d fallen in love. And, he loved back.

Michael…Michael had my heart, Michael tore me apart…

Michael was a talented producer from Saint Petersburg who was invited to Kazakhstan to make new shows. With eyes hidden most of the time behind dark glasses, he always gave me the best roles.

I slept with him. I gave him my love.

So of course, he made me lead actress.

I was good enough. Nothing special. But, I was beautiful.

When the papers critiqued my performances they described me as a tall, slender beauty with dark-blonde hair, big eyes and a full mouth. My hair was long, my eyebrows darker than dark. Then, I looked even more like the Eastern-girl I liked about myself. I was graced with the Asian features many Kazakhstan-Russian women had—haunting almond-shaped, slanted eyes. A feature I believed helped me acquire many main roles.

The truth was, I was happy with whatever role the directors of the theatre gave me: I was young, and in the prestigious Academe Theatre.

I felt power in what I’d achieved already.

A top producer loved me.

And, I was the core actress.

The night I’d finished the premiere of my favorite show, Till Eulenspiegel, written by Gregory Goren, it was raining. The play was about a Norwegian hero, and I played all three main female roles: Nelly—the girlfriend of Till, Quinn Anne, and Betkin—a prostitute. Those three characters followed me the rest of my life.

The night had been long, and it was early morning. The premier was over, the after-party celebration complete. The rain was falling like sparkly diamonds on concrete. My happiness almost felt florescent, with a lightness so bright it was almost sheer. Can you see through me? Will I disappear?

I was walking on Abaya Avenue—a main street that ran down the center of Alma-Ata. I was dancing, spinning, laughing, I was tipsy and at the top of my game.

Michael was dancing in front of me. Sweet, talented Michael was leading the way for slender-florescent-Elena.

Like he always did.

I looked up to Michael. I admired him.

Even after he beat me.

I’ll never forget the day I met Michael.

I played a princess. I was sillier then, young, when Michael appeared during my rehearsal. I felt invisible, just an actress standing among a group of other, better actors and actresses. Here’s a director who’s going to make a great show, said the woman who ran the theatre when she introduced him.

Michael was slender and short. An average looking man. Later, I learned to appreciate his style of pencil-thin jeans and large sweaters and the body behind the clothes. His hair was ash with gray, and his eyes were always hidden behind those dark glasses. I thought he was nice—until he talked to me. Then nice grew to include words like eloquent and powerful. The way his mind worked intrigued me. The words that came out of his tiny, unattractive mouth had a beautiful ring when he spoke. The first time he came to my dressing room, he seemed to be sharing something important with me—like what he was talking about was beyond his words, and only I could understand.

I thought to myself, He’s such a big man in such a little body.

He was only thirty-six, and that surprised me. He’d accomplished so much. He’d graduated from one of the top theatre and movie schools in Russia. One of his teacher’s had been Andrew Tarkovskiy—one of the most well-known directors in the Soviet Union. Michael had been his best student.

When Michael pulled his glasses off, I was complete:

All I saw were amazing, beautiful blue eyes.

* * *

I danced after the premier. I smelled concrete after rain.

Warm concrete. Water. Plants.

There on Abaya Avenue, water from the mountains flowed off to the side in little two-foot wide ditches that lined the street. The smell of water on concrete, the playful rain and the wet plants; created a strong feeling of presence.

I was alive.

Warmth and smell made my foundation. I jumped. I danced. It was late—2:00 am, yet I still couldn’t forget the Minister of Culture’s words. He was important and he’d seen the show, my performance, and he had attended the post-production party. He’d given my actress-Elena a very high score. Elena, you are absolutely unique and special.

Nor could I forget Michael’s toast.

Elena, my dearest, you inspired me to make this beautiful production. Because of you this production exists. After his toast, hundreds of people applauded.

I cried—not out of sadness but joy. A joy so big I thought I’d pop.

Buffet…group of people…Minister. Then, the party started.

On Abaya Avenue, Michael was dancing too. He was tipsy, we were happy. It was warm for September and spitting light rain. Ahead of me, Michael sang and flowed. With all of this love, and sparkles from the rain, I could barely feel myself, as if I had a weightless body. Yet, the power inside of me was strong. I knew if I were asked to move a mountain from one side to the other I could do it very easily.

The next moment was critical. So critical, I wished I could reverse time.

But I couldn’t.

My present-day yoga-Elena flies to meet my twenty-five-year-old actress-Elena to try and stop the next steps. She wants answers to her questions: When did I disconnect from myself. Why does my soul not love my body anymore? I take actress-Elena’s beautiful, florescent- dancing girl hands, and she stops. I tell her I want to be with her. Elena do you recognize me, do you feel me? When she looks at me I can tell she can’t believe I’m her twenty-seven-years-older-self. I say, Yes, Elena, it’s me—it’s you. She was shocked she looked so beautiful at that age. She couldn’t believe she would look like that…not that wonderful, especially as a Soviet Union woman. Soviet Union women aged quickly and hard. I start crying. Touching young-Elena’s hand I feel her energy, light like a cloud. I ask her not to do what she’s about to do next.

I knew this was the moment that forever changed my life…

I didn’t believe in God. We had no religion in school.

Still, I was so happy that evening I couldn’t imagine what could possibly come next. I was at the peak of my happiness. At twenty-four I had everything.

What’s next, what could possibly come next?

The feeling was a scary one. Fear flowed down my dancing legs, stopping me. That’s when I asked the questions:

Is this it? What is life about?

Is my curtain down?

After that moment, my life began to change.

"No, no…no, Yoga-Elena begs actress-Elena. Don’t ask these questions."

Everything in my life fell apart after that. Like a skyscraper crashing down, I was on the ground.

It was hell at the bottom.

LEAVING MICHAEL

Michael had my heart. He also hit me.

Michael loved as aggressively as he abused. I never knew when his anger would flair. Russian men abused their wives. It happened all the time. The Soviet Union had laws but it was normal for Russian women to tolerate the abuse. After three years, the episodes had misted into a fog that covered my memory, until I couldn’t even remember the first time he hit me. It must have been over something stupid. It always was.

The day I broke, Michael was producing the well-known play Amadeus, and I was thrilled. Again, Michael had chosen me for the lead role—Amadeus’s wife, Constanze Weber. It didn’t take me long to realize I was in over my head. I was young, and I didn’t have the emotional maturity to grasp what was truly going on. He loved me. Right? I had no idea where to even begin to find those female mixed-up emotions that felt so good and awful at the same time—the love, the anguish. I thought I loved Michael, and deeply. But at twenty-five I really didn’t know what love meant—and, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Constanze Weber knew.

Michael was desperate for me to be completely passionate in the role. Like always, I wanted to please him. I wanted to please myself. By the third week of rehearsal I couldn’t deny I was failing. I